The Problem of the Two Shots
by bcbdrums
Summary: "Watson, my mind requires stimulation, and if there are no criminals to provide it, I must use the drug. Besides, it is none of your business anyway." With that, he leaned back to inject himself, and I did a very stupid thing.


This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Problem of the Two Shots

© 2005, 2008 by the author (anonymous by request) in association with Daylor and Sheldon Publishing™

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The Problem of the Two Shots

It was the strangest weather I ever remember seeing in London. Dry, scorching hot days followed by cold, blustery nights. It was morning after one of these nights that the strangest thing ever to happen in Baker Street occurred, at least strange from my perspective. I imagine that for the others present it was little more than surprising. But it was so strange that it has weighed upon my mind for some time.

In my friend Watson's chronicles, he does himself a disservice in that he rarely mentions his own powers of observation, acquired after a fashion due to his years of service with me and my schooling. And so it is in hopes that he may receive some of the credit he is due that I have asked him to record these events, though they shall hardly fill a page as the time in which they took place was scarcely more than an hour. SH

It was late morning, and the sun was waging war on the people of London again. Our fire from the night before had dwindled to mere embers, and Sherlock Holmes was seated in his armchair with the sleeve of his dressing gown rolled up as he prepared to inject himself with cocaine. 

It had been days since any professional problem had come before my friend, and this in combination with the abominable weather was driving him mad; I could see him beginning to lose that iron constitution for which he is so well known. 

As I saw him take the syringe out of its neat, morocco case, I felt a rage build up within me. Perhaps it was the weather, or maybe my medical instincts were finally winning me over. Either way, I snapped.

"Holmes, I will not allow you to poison yourself any longer!" I stalked over to his chair and stood over him defiantly.

"Watson," he said distractedly, "my mind requires stimulation, and if there are no criminals to provide it, I must use the drug." He gave me the practiced speech yet again as he began to fill the syringe. "Besides, it is none of your business anyway." With that, he leaned back to inject himself, and I did a very stupid thing. I snatched the flask and syringe out of his hand and threw them into the fireplace. 

The tinkle of broken glass told of the loss of the drug and again, I did a stupid thing. I smiled. He rose slowly, his lips set in a firm line as his steel eyes met mine. I met his with equal vehemence. 

He slowly reached for another bottle from the table and I slapped his hand away. He drew a long breath, and caught me completely off guard with his next move. 

He knocked me down with a right cross. I sat up incredulously, to see a smug smile of satisfaction on his face. That smile made me lose all control and I lunged at him. In moments we were brawling, and not holding back any of the fury the recent stagnation had instilled in us. I stopped him momentarily with an uppercut and I could see the surprise on his face. 

He came at me again, but the anger his eyes had initially held was now replaced with something akin to competitiveness. His eyes met mine and I knew that our battle had turned into play, any harm we had intended the other at the outset now only an unfortunate consequence of our fun. I remember thinking later how ridiculous it was that I had unintentionally relieved his boredom by boxing with him. 

Our game didn't last much longer. Holmes was fast getting the better of me as he had far more experience in the sport, and when he knew he had done me, he stepped back a pace, but kept his guard up.

"Again?" he asked with what only I would recognize as a smile, and I was prepared to strike again when he gasped suddenly and turned toward the door. I followed his gaze and saw Mrs. Hudson, and Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade standing in our doorway with open mouths and gaping eyes. 

I felt my face grow hot as I straightened up, and was about to speak a word of explanation when I noticed something curious. Lestrade was looking not at Holmes' face, but at the innumerable puncture marks on his exposed forearm. Looking at Holmes', I saw a slight flush come over his countenance and was surprised that instead of speaking he only swallowed nervously.

"You will excuse us a moment while we refresh ourselves," I said, taking charge of the situation, "Please bring the inspectors some tea Mrs. Hudson?" I called back after seizing Holmes' thin arm and dragging him into his bedroom. 

"That was embarrassing," I remarked as I checked my appearance. At the sound of my voice, my friend regained his composure and rolled his eyes at my statement. 

I watched him with interest as he moved to his makeup table and endeavored to conceal the telltale marks on his arm. 

Looking over his shoulder, I saw some prominent bruises from our scuffle appearing on his face. He later told me mine were far more conspicuous. 

In no more than ten minutes we were back in our sitting room where an incredulous Gregson was seated as Mrs. Hudson calmly poured out the tea. Lestrade was poking at the charred remains of the cocaine and syringe in our fireplace. I immediately tensed, but Holmes silenced me with a glance.

"Chilly, Lestrade? In this disastrous weather? Pray, join your learned companion at the table. I am most eager to hear the problem that has brought both of Scotland Yard's finest to my door. Thank you Mrs. Hudson," he nodded to her as she silently exited the room.

The inspectors still looked between the two of us warily, and I thought Lestrade was going to ask about the undoubtedly confusing scene they had viewed upon their entrance, but then Gregson answered Holmes' query.

"It's like this, Mr. Holmes. One of our constables, Durham by name, was on the beat down in Pall Mall when he heard two shots, one right after the other. He ran around the corner to see a man flat on his back near the alley, and another fellow standing over him.

'What's happened here?' Durham asked.

'I was walking down the street, when this fellow walks out of his front door and shoots himself,' said the other fellow. 

"Well, our man blew his whistle, and Inspector Lestrade and I happened to be investigating a separate matter just on the next street. We'd heard the shots too, but being further away it took us longer to get there. We examined the area, and it looked like a clear case of suicide."

"Surely, you mean murder?" Holmes interrupted.

"That was our first thought, of course," replied Gregson.

"But the weapon was found in the hand of the dead man and there were no powder burns on the hands of Mr. Smith, uh, the other fellow," Lestrade interjected, gaining him an irritated look from his compatriot.

"Why then, have you come to consult me?"

"Because the witness, a Mr. Bob Smith, heard and saw only one shot, while we and all others in the vicinity heard two." Gregson clarified.

"Most gratifying," said Holmes as he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands together.

"What?"

"Oh? Nothing Inspector. Pray, continue with your narrative. Were there any other points of interest?"

"A good many!" Lestrade exclaimed, "Let me describe the scene to you. The pavement was as dusty as the street, due to the aridity and the wind, so both men's footprints were clear. This fellow Bob Smith, he came to Pall Mall in a cab. We could see the marks of the wheels in the street. He walked up the street and stopped across from the dead man's house. He waited there for a short time, and then walked back the way he had come very rapidly. He suddenly stopped and ran across the street and stopped at the spot where we found him. Now the dead fellow had walked quickly out of his home and turned left—"

"South-West."

"Yes, but how did you know that!"

"No matter," Holmes said, closing his eyes and leaning further back, "Please continue."

"Well…like I said, the dead chap, whom we've identified as Geoffrey Thomas from his papers, walked outside and went down the street hurriedly, parallel to the path of Mr. Smith, and then he stopped and faced the street. He took two small steps forward, then staggered backward and fell where we found him. Smith's story corroborates the evidence."

"Anything else?"

"There were some peculiarities," began Gregson. "Mr. Smith's coat was very dirty and wrinkled, and his hands were clammy. He was very out of breath. Also, this is a trifle but you do enjoy those things…"

"Go on..."

"The dead man's hat didn't match his suit."

"Oh," Holmes said with a note of disappointment, "And you didn't question the man about his actions even though his footprints made them quite obvious?"

"Well, the case was so clear-cut there seemed to be no need. But we are holding the man for further questioning. We thought we should consult you before taking further action because as you know, on the rare occasion we have been in error."

"Everything you have done thus far has been in error," Holmes muttered as he lit his pipe, "Now, did anything about the scene strike you as out of the ordinary?"

"Why, yes! At the mouth of the alley there was a rubbish bin, and the ground between the bin and the body looked as if it had been swept recently."

"Hmm…you did not search the bin?"

"No, we saw no need to."

"Ah!" Holmes exclaimed with a disgusted look at the man, who shrank back. Before he could question Holmes though, Lestrade spoke again.

"You've forgotten the most important detail, Gregson!"

"What have I forgotten?"

"You mean you didn't observe it? Ha!" Gregson was visibly irritated with the idea of his rival noticing something he hadn't. "Well Mr. Holmes, when I examined the scene, I took a close look at the body. The gun in the hand of the dead man was a .38 caliber, while the bullet that killed him came from a .45," he paused for a smug look at his colleague, who was red with anger. "This and the fact that the witness only saw and heard one shot, while we heard two, is the most perplexing part of the case. It is for these reasons we have intruded upon your, um…brunch," he finished lamely.

"Most conclusive. Unfortunate that you were not able to draw the correct conclusion despite your excellent though incomplete accumulation of the facts." Holmes murmured with a touch of boredom in his voice, and I could see why. The case was absurdly simple and offered no realm for my friend to use those remarkable deductive faculties with which he had been endowed.

"Now Mr. Holmes, don't tell us you've already formed a theory!" said Gregson. Holmes just puffed his pipe, and I found the entire thing so ridiculous, that I was unable to remain silent.

"Do not tell me that neither of you see the direction in which all these facts point!" Holmes cocked an eye at me.

"Not you too, Dr. Watson!" Gregson groaned.

"When it is so obvious, even a child could see the solution."

"All right, let's have it then!" 

"Very well, this man, Bob Smith, if that is his real name, which I doubt, murdered Geoffrey Thomas." Holmes sat up in his chair at my declaration and was watching me intently. 

"Don't be ridiculous!" said Lestrade, with some vexation.

"It is true. And I can tell you precisely what occurred. Smith came to this man's home, intending to murder him. He waited for him to exit, and then mirrored his path across the street. Mr. Thomas, was expecting such an attempt, judging by his gait, but did not observe the assassin immediately. When he did, he stopped, and they faced each other across the street. When Smith started towards him, Thomas pulled his gun and fired at his assailant, missing him completely and failing to try again in his anxious state. In the meantime, Smith had reached his target, and placing his own gun to the man's head to affect the appearance of a suicide, he killed him. 

"He knew someone would have heard the shots, and quickly threw his .45 caliber gun and gloves in the Rubbish bin. Yes he was wearing gloves, to prevent any powder burns. This accounts for the lack of the latter and his clammy hands. He removed his coat and with it, brushed away his footprints between the body and the bin, which explains his disheveled and dirty appearance. He was out of breath because he had to do all this before your man Durham came upon them, not a whole minute later. And then he lied about the number of shots fired because Thomas had only fired one shot, and no doubt you gentlemen would notice that and chalk the second one up to an echo. 

"That is a fairly succinct summary, and if you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask." I took a nervous breath as I realized what I had just done, and found the detectives glaring at me. 

"Well gentlemen?" Holmes asked after a moment had passed. I looked at him incredulously.

"You aren't saying—" Lestrade gasped.

"Yes, Dr. Watson has given you a most accurate interpretation of the facts. This appalling weather has done wonders for his talents of inference. Perhaps I shall add his name to my business card," he put out his pipe, "And I do hope you will not let this Bob Smith out of your sight, for if you do you will have forever lost the murderer."

"We've still got him, Sir." Holmes said nothing more. "I guess we'll be going now," the official man ventured.

"One thing, Lestrade," said Holmes as they were walking out the door, "Have you still got the hat of the dead man?"

"Yes, it's in our cab outside as a matter of fact, but—?"

"Kindly, bring it here." 

While Lestrade was down getting the hat, I saw Holmes looking at me curiously. Before I could say anything though, Lestrade returned with the hat. As Holmes reached for it, I observed Lestrade's eyes lingering on my friend's wrist. He was no doubt surprised to see it absent of any suggestive red marks, and left with an angry frown, slamming our door behind him. Holmes walked over to the fireplace then and stood in front of it with an amused look upon his face.

"What?"

"Those two really should work together more often," he said with a smirk, "Between the two of them, they managed to acquire nearly every fact of the case with the exception of the all-important evidence in the rubbish bin. Had Lestrade swallowed his pride and asked Gregson for assistance here, they may have been successful in discovering my shameful habit."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, Lestrade was quite quick in observing the broken syringe and flask that you unceremoniously deposited in the fireplace last hour, but completely failed to notice the full bottle of cocaine on the table!" he let out a liquid laugh, which is usually indicative of the presence of the drug, but this time I knew it to be pure amusement.

"And Gregson would have noticed the bottle?" He nodded, and sat in his armchair, motioning me to join him.

"Holmes, about the…" I started as I sat across from him, but the smile on his face stemmed my words. I felt one growing on my lips as well, when he suddenly looked away, his face slightly strained. 

He seemed to resolve something in his mind and began to chuckle. His good humor was infectious, and soon we were both laughing uncontrollably. "I'm sorry, Holmes," I said as I regained control, "I don't know what compelled me to do that this morning."

"I do," he replied, and smiled at me. "I should not use the drug, and I know it as well as you.Now!" he exclaimed, grabbing his remaining supply of cocaine and smashing it into the fireplace, "That is over and done with. Let us see the unfortunate Mr. Thomas' hat." He picked up his lens and observed it closely. He promptly tossed it over to me and handed me the lens. "What do you make of it, Watson?" Biting back my surprise at his jarring action of a moment before, I examined the article in question.

The hat was a strange shade of green with a red band, and was of good quality. The owner could not have worn it often, because the brim had few sweat stains, and there were very few hairs caught on the inside. It was, however, faded on one side, showing me that he had owned it for some time. I could see the dirt where it must have collided with the pavement when the man fell, but I wasn't getting much farther than that. I tried to look at the problem as if it had nothing to do with the case at hand, and came up with what I thought to be a plausible reconstruction.

"The man was wealthy, judging from the quality of the hat. He was middle aged, from the color and type of hair on the inside of the brim, and he was careless, judging from the amount of dust he has let accumulate on it. He has owned the hat for approximately six months, but no less mind you, and he wore it infrequently, which explains the fading on the one side and again offers explanation for the dust—" 

"Please Watson, I need not hear every single reason behind your hypotheses. Just the conclusions if you please."

"Right," I cleared my throat, "He was unmarried, because no sane woman would let her husband out of the house in a hat of this color." Holmes laughed at this last remark.

"Correct on all counts!"

"I have not finished." He raised his eyebrows. "He has a first floor window in his home opening to the South-West, and he hangs his hat front-side up on a wall which is perpendicular to the window, and on the right side of it." Holmes' eyebrows rose even higher and he took the hat back from me and examined it.

"I am surprised you noticed that," he stated incredulously. "No doubt you deduce this from the indentation on the inside of the front of the hat, and the lack of the expansion of the elastic on the inside that one would usually use to hang a hat, and the fading being concentrated to the left side."

"Naturally." 

"And you do recognize that he was of a nervous and unobservant type?"

"Of course, or he may yet be alive." The curious look came over his face again, as if he was debating some amusing point in his head. Finally, he turned to me and smiled.

"Congratulations Watson! You have learned to use your imagination and thus succeeded in making accurate deductions from your observations. You have surpassed all my expectations!" I beamed at this rare praise. "And now for a much needed escape from this confining space! What do you say to a repast at Marcini's, my treat, and a solo violin concert of all your favorite airs afterward?"

"Fine! But there is one point I am unclear on," I mentioned as we moved for the door.

"Oh? And what point is that?"

"How did you know that Thomas turned South-West upon leaving his home? He could have just as easily turned North-East from my view of it."

"Ah, and there you have me Watson. I must admit to a slight guess on that point, though it was most certainly not arbitrary. I only wanted to put the inspectors in their proper place after having caught us in such an unceremonious action." I chuckled at his display of vanity.

"What was your reasoning then?"

"Quite simple really. The wind is blowing from the North-East. How many men do you know who will step out of their homes and directly face a blinding wind and dust storm?"

"But if his destination were—?" 

"Ah, but even were that the case, nearly every person who steps out into a harsh wind will inevitably turn their back for a moment to secure their wrappings further against the penetrating gales." And not for the last time, I smiled in awe at my friend's remarkable capacity for deductive reasoning. We left the flat arm in arm, and my friend wore a proud smile on his face for the better part of the week.

A few side notes on the case and the events of that morning: Geoffrey Thomas had been an agent for a blackmailing company Holmes uncovered at a later date. Perhaps I shall publish an account of that singular incident when it will be of no harm to anyone. 

Bob Smith alias Robert Johnson alias Paul Smythe had been assigned to kill Thomas when he betrayed the gang and was going to turn queen's evidence. Smythe was hung for the murder. 

Holmes never again used cocaine, but became even more strongly addicted to tobacco and caffeine. We never raised a hand against each other again except in sport, and Holmes had a special set of business cards printed which he occasionally uses. They read 'Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson, Consulting Detectives.' 

I wish to note that my biographer extremely overdramatized the more personal events that occurred in this narrative, and I encourage the reader not to regard them as fact. SH

The End


End file.
